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valshirathelight · 3 months ago

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FROM ONE PORTAL TO ANOTHER ;

Location: Elune's Veil, Melithar Manor, Avalon Characters: Val'shira Melithar, Bellanaris (mum), Unnamed Uncle/Noble Melithar Titania Advisor, Laslan (gardener friend NPC) Mentions: Lucanis, Ikaros, Tianyou Synopsis: Half self para, half DnD prompt. Val returns from the Eluvian safe and in one piece but with lots of bad news. The bad news taken the worst by her uncle is considered a betrayal to her mother's final wishes. Val leaves to collect herself, determined to be in a good mindset to resolve this issue. However, before she is able to return to finish the conversation with her uncle, a very mysterious thing occurs. She didn't even get to have her shower, nap and talk with Tianyou before another portal sucks her up. TW: Dementia. While not explicitly mentioned, the Blight here has caused something very similar to dementia symptoms. It may be difficult to read the first part of this self para if someone experienced a loved one with altered mental state, behavioral issues and loss of memory.

— INTO THE ELUVIAN, ENDING —

The Melithar advisor to Queen Titania was old, powerful, yet he looked weary in front of her when she walked in. It wasn’t quite fair, Val’shira knew that he was taking on so many burdens that were rightfully Val’s. His only responsibility should have been to keep himself firmly at Queen Titania’s side, not to look over the affairs of Elune’s Veil as well. But her uncle also valued nothing more than he did his family. The youngest son of the Melithar family, second child and younger brother to Bellanaris, he watched his sister struggle to balance the duties of Elune’s Veil and then did what he could to help her. Val had asked him why he cared so much once, and he only looked at her in disbelief.

“I love my family,” he’d said that day. “She is my sister. We are blood.”

We are blood.

Maybe she’d taken that too broadly when she was young, Val'shira thought, thinking of all the elves and elvhen-blooded. Or maybe her immediate family never felt like enough of a connection for her, not like it had for her uncle. Architects saw the beauty and history of all that was elvhen, and all that was elvhen was connected in that beauty and history. But as wonderous as the elvhen were, the worst parts of them were dark beyond imagining. The foundation of their home was corrupted. Within the shadows of the Light of the Laurelin was hidden the worst of the darkness, and it was Lusacan's fault that Bellanaris suffered now, as well as Tianyou's father. And former Queen Yavanna. Her stomach lurched. Val would have to tell her uncle that. Maybe he'd be relieved, then, that Mir'solas had died far away from this before she could suffer what was to come, and that her child was hopefully untainted and unaffected too.

When Val'shira had come to him in an effort to explain her desire to travel Taravell in search of her sister’s child, he had not hesitated to volunteer his services as heir to Elune’s Veil while she was gone. Her uncle was a good man, and she had always looked up to him and his big heart and diplomatic spirit. But he loved his older sister dearly, and now his sister was Blighted, and he paid little attention when it came to his last living niece. The worst darkness of the elves was in the blood of their matriarch. So, that was fair. Val was older now too and her uncle’s lack of attention did not come from any resentment or apathy. He wasn’t her parent and she preferred it this way - it meant he trusted her to do what she needed to do for their family anyway. She wasn’t sure if, after today, he’d still trust her.

Val walked into her mother’s room as her uncle pressed a blanket into those trembling and pale hands. Hands that were tanned and strong once, hands that probably played with her brother in the gardens outside this very manor, centuries ago.

“You made this yourself when we were young, don’t you remember?” He spoke low, so low that Val could barely hear him as she approached. “You gave it to Mira when she was engaged to the Sylaise boy… said that it would be suitable to warm your future grandchildren.” He smiled hopefully and, somehow, that broke Val’s heart more than the look in her own mother’s eyes. Bellanaris merely stared into empty space, the veins around her eyes darkened with the sickness that tainted so many of the older elves.

Her uncle’s voice was soft and patient, and he did not even move. “Bella-”

Bellanaris screamed, her head whipping to the sound of her brother speaking to her suddenly, her eyes wide and without recognition for the man that she was raised with. She screamed and yanked the blanket away, the sound of that fearful screaming turning into what Val could only call a fit of absolute rage and insanity as Bellanaris tried to wrap her brother’s neck with the silk in a choking vice.

Val recalled the first time her mother had attacked them in her Blighted madness; she had shot her with an arrow to the leg meant to simply put her to sleep. Her uncle had spent hours screaming at her for shooting at her own mother. Now, she rushed forward and took the syringe from the nearby nightstand and kicked her mother sideways to the stomach before her uncle could lose his breath. Bellanaris pitched back, choking, but Val pulled her close again and embedded the syringe deep into her neck. Like every single time she’s had to do this before, it felt like a part of her soul withered and died inside her. It didn’t matter that her mother had treated her as an afterthought her entire life, this was still her mother and she was still accosting her. Deep inside, Val knew that Bellanaris’ emotions had been complicated, but love had still been there… and her mother was still her mother. Her mother was here, physically, but mentally? She was long gone. It was odd to mourn someone whose body she could still touch.

Bellanaris sagged forward in her daughter’s arms, unconscious, and Val’s uncle rushed forward to relieve his niece of the burden. Together, they carefully and gently placed Bellanaris back into her bed. The enchantments held the old elve there as she slept. Her uncle checked on the bruise Val’s foot had made and began to heal it as Val simply stood there, watching the despair and grief cloud those amber eyes of his. Her uncle physically looked her own age, if not just a few years old. However, the true age of him was unmistakable in his eyes, just a few years older than Titania herself and burdened with wisdom that wasn’t always easy to carry.

Neither one of them spoke for a moment. Her uncle watched his sister’s breathing even out on the bed and Val watched him watch her. Finally, she let out a sigh.

“Uncle, I need to talk to you,” she murmured, the silk armor still bloodied from her time in the Eluvian only moments ago. There was no chance she’d be able to rest or sleep without first facing this hurdle of speaking to her uncle.

Finally, it seemed that he noticed Val, his eyes drifting to the blood on her armor. So, she began with the tale of the journey first, with the obstacles, the accomplishments and the loss of the former Queen, Yavanna. He listened with the patience of a Saint. None of that was the issue that would make her very calm, collected uncle stand up and pace though.

— THE ROAD, STARTING PROMPT —

Speaking to her uncle had been a nightmare. She knew he loved her, but he spat at the idea of denying Bellanaris, his older sister, her final sane wish - the continued legacy of their family. Val’shira insisted until she simply stormed out, unable to continue speaking to him without likely saying something she’d regret. She loved him too, regrettably, that was perhaps the only reason she left the room without the conflict resolved. He was a good man and wise, a faithful advisor to Queen Titania. It wasn’t completely his fault she was a nightmare of a niece to deal with. From skirting her duties as heir to Elune’s Veil just to gallivant Taravell in fruitless pursuits to now, trying to end an engagement meant to put their family back on the right track.

Sensing her distress as she stormed out into the gardens, the older elf came to her side. Val’shira had known their gardener since she was less than a century old. She had confided in him before, more than the others that worked around the estate. She knew that he had been the one to help her other mother escape Avalon, something Val had found out many years ago and never confronted him about. If she had, she would have had to explain that she didn’t blame Laslan and he was right to do what he did for the elve who had never wanted the life Avalon was offering her. But it wasn’t so simple as just understanding what her mother had done, because Val still carried the hurt of an abandoned child. She didn’t want to have that conversation with Laslan, didn’t want him carrying the burden of her feelings in that way.

Instead, they talked about all that had happened in the Eluvian. It was a soothing chat… it always was with Laslan. He let her curse and yell a lot, which was cathartic. The Melithars were calm and intelligent diplomats, but he understood that being tranquil all the time was a lot to ask of someone with a restless spirit. Now that all that bad energy had been let out, she was tired and empty. Val sighed, rubbing a finger over her temple.

“Delusional. I told Lucanis that when the Eluvian first returned, and I think I was at my most sane when I admitted it. I’m delusional if I think I can fix every problem I’ve been wanting to fix by myself. My sister’s child… getting people’s Light back just so everyone like my niece or nephew with elvhen ties could get into Avalon. Smarter people have tried the latter. And the former? I’m kidding myself. Mira’s kid is probably dead, this family is broken and I’m just trying to make a new one - considering every idiot in Taravell with elvhen blood my family.”

“Your family is not broken,” he insisted calmly. “And I know you still think Taravell is the most beautiful place you’ve-“

Val turned her head and gave him a look, but Laslan returned it.

“My mother is Blighted and insane,” Val replied with a rueful smile. “My sister’s dead. My uncle-“

“He needs you, as does the Veil.”

“That’s why I answered the call,” Val argued. “I swore I’d be on Ikaros’ side, no matter what. I’m still helping our people. But-“ She huffed. “Take my mother, for example…”

“Lady Bellanaris?”

“No.”

There was a small stretch of uncomfortable silence.

“… If I wanted to leave here forever one day. If I just got tired of it all like she did, would you also help me? The way you helped her?”

“I never helped your mother leave, Val,” he replied so easily, feigning confusion.

That’s when her own confusion set in, the confusion that wormed its way into Val’shira’s heart like blood that was slowly running colder with each beat. Liar. Elves could not lie.

“I…” Val’s eyes narrowed slightly as she shifted on her feet. “I know what you did, Laslan. I’ve known for centuries. Remember I used to sneak into your house, Sinna’s house, Ghilana’s house - everyone’s house - and leave those pixies and ferrets? I didn’t mean to pry but you’d left it open on your desk. Your journal, the one with the green cover…”

She saw Laslan’s face grow paler than winter frost, then his eyes go vacant. “Las-Laslan?”

It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, Val hadn’t had the warrior’s instinct to dodge as he reach out and grabbed her hair. She screamed and kicked at him, eventually finding the purchase to flip the older elf over and into a bush of roses.

“LASLAN, WHAT ARE YOU-“ She twisted away from his hand again and then saw him as the magic sparked and flickered around him. A flash. It was all so bright, but she couldn’t keep her eyes away. Laslan was gone before she could scream his name. In his place… a portal. For one shining moment, Val’shira felt her heart grow heavy with longing - sorrow and joy mixing. She had seen many beautiful things, she had painted and drawn many beautiful things but every single one of them paled in comparison to what the portal showed her. And to what she felt as she looked at it.

Energy coursed through her veins, or she thought it did, because Val’shira had never felt so alive. Music like nothing that even Mir’solas could have ever conjured filled her head. And her mind whispered about one of the truths she had been longing for, she knew in her very soul that it was all true. Breathless, Val reached out to the portal, hesitating only long enough to remember Laslan. Something had happened to him, likely something awful. Something might happen to her too if she walked into this unknown magic. But this was a gift and a chance that she didn’t think she could lose, and perhaps, it was everything she had been needing. She was a child of light, bursting with it from the moment that she was born, given to her by the Laurelin and by her own blood. If another light called to her now, Val’shira could not ignore it.

She stepped through the portal.

#dnd ❂#self para ❂

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illumins · 2 years ago

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The small manor's main hall was adorned with inexpensive wallpaper, its vibrant royal blue hue dotted with gracefully flying cranes. This ornate decoration spanned the entire space, casting a captivating ambiance upon the room. The manor, well-known to the residents of Lillon, a quaint port town nestled on the eastern side of the majestic Avalon mountains, stood proudly atop a lofty hill overlooking the tumultuous sea. The crashing waves resounded through the manor, harmonizing with the fervent shouts of its diligent butlers and maids.

Clad in a flowing white gown, Lena gracefully descended the grand u-shaped staircase, her every step a symphony of mischief. With each passing second, a mischievous smile adorned her face as the caretakers of the manor gasped for breath, cursing her name. The cold touch of the marble floor against her bare feet amplified a sense of liberation that coursed through her veins.

"Lady Lena! I implore you, please halt your advance!" cried out her butler in desperation.

And halt she did. Turning around, she couldn't help but snicker at the sight of her beleaguered butler, hunched over with a dress draped over his arm. As he looked up, his breath held, he cautiously attempted to approach her, but she instinctively took a step back. Extending her index finger playfully, she warned, "Nah ah, Mr. Freed. One step closer, and I may be tempted to test the full force of gravity by leaping out of the window."

Exasperated, Mr. Freed bent backward, his frustration palpable. "My word, Lena. Why must you always be so obstinate?"

"Why, Mr. Freed? Don't you find it amusing?" she asked, her eyes gleaming mischievously.

Meeting her daring gaze with an unamused expression, Mr. Freed's lips formed a pout reminiscent of a basset hound. "Not particularly. How do you perceive it, then?"

"A thrill," she exclaimed, her eyebrow teasingly raised, before darting off into the bustling kitchen. The chaotic symphony of two cooks and seven maids echoed within the culinary domain, their frantic movements tracing a frenzied path from one end to the other. The head chef, with a commanding presence, barked orders while deftly chopping freshly plucked vegetables from the garden. Amidst the flurry of activity, the Lady of the manor remained unnoticed, her presence inconsequential as the staff busily toiled to complete their culinary creations. It struck her as peculiar, but she saw no reason to dwell on such matters. Instead, she directed her steps toward the pantry.

Navigating through the industrious throng of workers, she gracefully evaded incoming plates, her hands tightly tucked by her side. Silently, she glided through the bustling scene until she arrived at the pantry's entrance. As she slipped inside, the sun's gentle rays poured through the glass dome ceiling, bathing the space in a natural glow. Illuminated before her were an array of spices, dried herbs, and tantalizing desserts. Her eyes widened as they fixated upon a glass jar brimming with freshly baked cookies, perched high upon a shelf. Wasting no time, she advanced swiftly, her steps careful and her arms outstretched. With a skillful maneuver, she managed to seize the jar, her heart filled with triumphant delight.

"Lena," a low voice cut through the air, causing her to startle.

Turning around, clutching the purloined jar, she chuckled nervously. "Ah, Vincent, you've caught me in the act. You nearly gave me a heart attack, old man."

“Don’t call me old.”

"Yes, sir," she hastily apologized, realizing her lapse in judgment.

Brandishing a knife stained with remnants of his culinary artistry, Vincent pointed at the jar of cookies. "That's the second jar this week."

“What can I say? You do god’s work.”

"Lena," he warned, his voice laced with a blend of admonishment and affection.

"Yes, sir," she relented, approaching him to hand over the coveted jar.

Stepping aside to allow her exit, Vincent's intentions were thwarted as an unforeseen impact jolted her backward.

"Oh, Vincent, please don't tell me you were concealing Lena again," Mr. Freed's composed voice broke through the moment of surprise, as both Lena and Vincent regained their composure.

Pointing his knife accusingly at Mr. Freed, Vincent grumbled, "And I distinctly recall instructing you not to run in my kitchen."

With a single finger, Mr. Freed gently pushed the knife away from his face. "Well, you should know that it's all thanks to this young lady. Her relentless chaos has pushed the maids to their limits, causing three of them to collapse from exhaustion."

Vincent cast a glance at Lena, who responded with a sheepish smile. "I had my suspicions," he remarked.

“Well, I will be taking Lady Lena to her room to be attended to so that when Sir Piermon arrives, he will be proud of the woman she’s become.”

Those words reverberated within her, rendering her motionless. Even as the butler firmly grasped her wrist, attempting to guide her away, she remained rooted to the spot. Father? Her mind struggled to conjure up a faint memory of a bearded man clad in fine garments—a tenuous connection to the man. The last time she had seen him, she was but a fragile twelve-year-old girl, trapped in a shadowy existence she could never fully escape.

The butler noticed the shock etched upon the girl's face, stifling an exasperated breath. "Lena, I understand that it has been a considerable time. However, we must prepare you for his arrival. Can you find it within yourself to comply? For us?"

Lifting her gaze, she comprehended the weight behind his words. Though she had not witnessed it firsthand, the murmurs circulating within these very walls had given her an inkling. Her father was not held in high regard within this manor, and perhaps not even in their hometown. Very well, she acquiesced, nodding her consent and allowing Mr. Freed to escort her away—from the kitchen, through the main hall, and up the ornate staircase.

They adorned her in a manner she had anticipated, to a degree that rendered the reflection in the mirror foreign to her own eyes. The maids, aware of her aversion to all things associated with femininity, had always outfitted her in modest attire, disguising her noble status. To an outside observer, she would have appeared as a commoner rather than a woman of distinction. Yet now, she found herself enveloped in a resplendent royal blue gown, intricate makeup adorning her features, her hair meticulously styled into an elegant bun, and a lingering fragrance of lavender clinging to her skin. It was all too overwhelming—a costume, she reassured herself, as she spun before the towering looking glass.

A pair of gentle knocks resonated through the chamber, prompting her to nod in permission for one of the maids to open the door. Mr. Freed emerged, bedecked in a fine vest, a shirt adorned with ruffled cuffs, and his meticulously groomed hair elegantly swept back.

"Your father has arrived, my Lady," he announced, his words evoking a disquieting sensation. The notion of having her father brought forth an unsettling strangeness she preferred to avoid. Nonetheless, she steeled herself, resolving to endure the encounter. "Very well," she responded with composed resolve.

Before stepping out of the room behind the butler, one of the maids intercepted her. Perplexed, she turned back, inquiring, "What is it?"

"Remember what you have been taught, my Lady—chin held high, shoulders back, and manners, Lady Lena," the elder maid gently hinted, prompting Lena to scoff inwardly at the absurdity of it all. Nevertheless, she allowed a smile to grace her lips and executed a graceful curtsy. "Very well," the maid approved, granting her permission to proceed.

Descending the grand staircase, Lena observed the mansion's staff, all bedecked in their finest uniforms, emitting an even more enticing fragrance than usual. They stood in rigid formation, forming a corridor of respect on either side of the imposing front door. From above, Lena glimpsed her father engrossed in conversation with Mr. Freed. Adorned in immaculate white attire, adorned with subtle yet intricate embroideries upon his coat, his wavy locks expertly swept back, and his piercing blue eyes exuding a chilling allure, he possessed an illusion of handsomeness.

Mr. Freed, sensing the hesitant presence of the young girl atop the staircase, introduced her with a reverent tone. "My Lord, may I present to you, Lady Lena."

Suppressing a heavy heartbeat, Lena felt her father's gaze lock with her own. A surge of desperation surged through her being—a desperate longing to escape the moment. With a forced smile etching upon her lips and her hands clutching at the folds of her blue gown, she embarked on the cautious descent down the curved staircase. Each step felt akin to a treacherous dance with mortality, as her eyes struggled to discern where her feet would find purchase. Finally, her feet touched the firm ground below, and she inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Standing before her father, she curtsied with practiced grace, uttering a polite greeting, "Father."

His gaze lingered upon her for what felt like an eternity, suffusing the room with an icy chill. If it were within the realm of possibility, she believed she would have dissolved into a mere puddle under the intensity of his scrutiny. A tingling sensation prickled her fingers, and her palms grew damp with perspiration. Even Mr. Freed, standing nearby, appeared uneasy, fidgeting subtly in his position.

Breaking the frigid silence, her father's voice pierced through the air, slicing through the palpable tension. "I perceive that you have blossomed into the Lady of this House, Lena. It appears my apprehensions were nothing more than figments of my imagination."

Keeping her eyes averted from him, she offered a subtle nod in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Father."

At that moment, Mr. Freed interjected, addressing her father as ‘Sir Piermon.’ "Lunch has been prepared, and your chamber awaits, should you wish to rest after your arduous journey."

"No need; I have come to see Lena and convey a message," her father asserted, disregarding Mr. Freed's suggestion. The butler attempted to interject once more, only to halt abruptly as her father raised a commanding hand.

Curiosity and trepidation swelled within her, prompting Lena to question, "What is it, Father?" She couldn't suppress the hastiness in her voice, and a twinge of regret prickled at her.

Her father's next words pierced her with a searing blow. "Your mother has passed."

The numbness that accompanied thoughts of her mother was not entirely unfamiliar; there had been little of her presence to cling to. Lena harbored but a solitary recollection, a swirling concoction of emotions and confusion, one she had long chosen to bury deep within. Yet, an uncharted hollow suddenly bloomed within her, unsettling the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was merely hunger, she attempted to persuade herself. Nevertheless, that unyielding part of her being, perpetually stirring with unwelcome emotions and thoughts, adamantly disagreed. No, Lena, you are experiencing sadness. That is the essence of this emotion—a profound sense of sorrow and loneliness.

Her lips bore the mark of her bite, a feeble attempt to suppress the torrent of unwelcome tears that threatened to spill forth. With a deliberate inhalation and exhalation, she sought to regain composure. "When did it happen?" Her voice, though laced with a semblance of sternness, trembled subtly at its conclusion.

"At Saint Moray's, at the onset of dusk. The attending nurses discovered her lifeless form resting by the window," he recounted. "It was a sudden passing."

Her question, sharp yet vulnerable, pierced the air. "And what was the cause?"

"Her heart simply gave out. That is all the information I possess," he responded matter-of-factly.

Lena's gaze remained fixed upon her father, his countenance devoid of any emotion, as cold as ever. Nodding with measured restraint, she averted her face, purposefully evading Mr. Freed's gaze. For a fleeting moment, her eyes caught a glimpse of disbelief etched upon the butler's visage, but she swiftly shifted her line of sight, unwilling to succumb to the shattering of her fragile facade.

"However, that is not the sole purpose of my visit," her father continued, oblivious to her refusal to acknowledge him.

Lena remained motionless.

And he did not pause to wait for her.

"You are to be wedded to the Marquis of Li'Pold," he declared, the words hanging heavily in the air. Her eyes widened in profound disbelief, her throat constricting with the suppressed scream that clamored for release. This time, she did look at him, a single tear slipping past her lengthy lashes, tracing a trail down her delicate jawline.

"What?" she exclaimed, her voice betraying her distressed state.

"The arrangements have been made, and a carriage shall arrive by month's end to collect you," he stated, turning his attention to Mr. Freed. The venerable butler, his face etched with wrinkles that belied his modest features, appeared almost as anguished as she felt. "Ensure that all pertinent belongings are adequately prepared. Intensify her tutelage in the art of being a dutiful wife and instruct her in the responsibilities befitting a Marquess, until such time as she departs."

So this is your plan, in the wake of mother's departure—to rid yourself of the other. "And what shall become of the individuals here?" she inquired through clenched teeth.

"They shall be reassigned to various noble households that have taken an interest in a select few," he replied dismissively.

Lena's tone now bore an unmistakable edge, her words gritted between her teeth. "A select few? And what of those who do not fall into that chosen category?"

"They shall receive a month's worth of wages as compensation and be left to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Is there anything else?" His voice sharpened dangerously, a clear indication of his impatience.

Unbeknownst to her, her posture had gradually succumbed to a slouch, but now she straightened her spine, rolling her shoulders back and elevating her chin with newfound resolve. "No," she replied, her voice carrying a tone of defiance.

A heavy silence engulfed them both, stretching taut like a tightly drawn bowstring. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mr. Freed regaining his composure, clearing his throat as if to break the oppressive stillness.

Sir Piermon ran a hand through his meticulously combed hair, pivoting on his heel. "That is all I have come to convey. I shall take my leave then," he declared. With the same swiftness that had brought him, he departed once more, leaving behind a lingering chill in the air.

Above, a tempestuous storm raged, casting its shadow over the land. Tiny droplets of rain glistened like scattered stars, illuminated intermittently by the flickering lantern on her bedside table and the occasional bolt of lightning. The rain tapped rhythmically against the circular window, offering a backdrop to the vast expanse of hills upon which the manor perched, overlooking the vast ocean. By night, the view possessed an air of haunting beauty, but to Lena, it whispered of untamed freedom, an untapped realm awaiting her.

Nestled within her double bed, positioned toward the room's rear, Lena lay ensconced in the embrace of fine cotton sheets and her nightgown. Her meticulously brushed hair cascaded over her right shoulder, but the dampness in the air transformed it into a fluffier, more unruly mass than she preferred—a trait that irked her. Ever since her father's departure, she had retreated into an isolated silence. During lunch, she sat alone, unable to stomach even a morsel of the freshly prepared chicken and salad that Vincent had lovingly crafted. Soon thereafter, the maids ushered her upstairs to her chamber, where they removed her gown, bathed her, and readied her for bed in an atmosphere of tense silence. In their own way, they extended a modicum of compassion, granting the numbed girl space, unaware of the clandestine battle waged within her mind.

She remained uncertain as to which side had emerged triumphant—was the weight of her mother's passing substantial enough to unleash her grief, or did the prospect of departing from the place she once regarded as a prison, now her sanctuary, loom too large, rendering it a mere memory too soon? All these emotions surged and churned, trapped within the confines of her throat, clawing and beseeching her to succumb to one or the other, yet she found herself incapable of action. Confusion reigned. Loss pervaded. She... was adrift.

Lena rose from her bed, the frigid wooden floor chilling her bare feet, and made her way toward the window, leaning her head against the cool glass. Will I become like her? Whatever had propelled my mother into madness, does it lie dormant within me as well? I wonder what affliction led her down that path. If only I knew, then perhaps I could stop it from happening to me... She attempted to envision her mother's descent into madness—mumbling incoherently, fixated on imaginary visions, but the images refused to materialize. For the only memory she retained of her mother was not one of insanity, but rather one steeped in tragedy.

I don’t want to be a tragedy.

Then, an unrestrained sob escaped her lips, followed by another and another, the outpouring of emotions intertwining in a tumultuous dance. Amidst the swirling torrent, one sentiment emerged with crystalline clarity: fear. It seized her, causing her hands to tremble uncontrollably, and she instinctively wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as if seeking protection from the weight that threatened to crush her. It felt as though madness itself threatened to consume her, burying her under its suffocating grip.

From a distant corner of the room, her gaze fell upon the glimmering lights emanating from the coastal town below. Man-made luminance illuminated the darkness, a stark contrast to her desolate surroundings. Her eyes traced the graceful sway of three imposing ships battling the tempestuous waves at the harbor. In her mind's ear, she could almost hear the echo of laughter and the strains of music that surely accompanied the revelry below. Lena cast a lingering glance back at her barren room, where an oppressive darkness loomed, signaling a foreboding and uncertain future that had abruptly arrived. Turning her attention back to the window, she pressed the right side of her face against the cold glass, gazing downward at the town, then fixing her gaze upon the ships. Ships—a symbol of liberation and boundless possibilities.

Driven by a sudden surge of exhilaration, Lena hurriedly made her way to her closet, fingers skimming past opulent silks in various hues of purple, blue, green, and red, each fabric a proclamation of status. Yet, status was the last thing she desired. She yearned for inconspicuous attire, garments that would allow her to blend seamlessly with the common folk inhabiting the bustling town below. An idea ignited within her, igniting a spark of giddy delight. The maids—surely they possessed garments more suited to her purpose. Silently, she turned the knob of one of the two wide doors, slipping out into the dimly lit hallway. The manor assumed a more hollow and haunting ambiance during the nocturnal hours, with the relentless rain pounding upon the roof and the vast windows, evoking an eerie yet oddly serene sensation. Moving with careful steps, she descended the stairs, her footsteps tiptoeing across the marble, her anxious mind praying for their echoes to dissipate into the shadows. The grandeur of the main hall served as a stark reminder of how, mere hours ago, she had frolicked through its expanse like an untethered child, laughter reverberating through the air. Yet, it was within these very walls that her world had been shattered, the world she had painstakingly constructed.

She proceeded toward the kitchen, but her steps carried her further, past four doors lining either side of the hallway. On the right stood the quarters for the men of the manor, while on the left resided the women. However, those four doors were not her intended destination. Her purpose lay within the last door on the left, nestled farther down the corridor beside a lavishly adorned table. Passing through the threshold, she found herself in the laundry room, where baskets brimming with clothing flanked sinks and drying racks. Garments of various kinds were strewn haphazardly across the space, and she wasted no time in sifting through the discarded fabric. Each item she examined was promptly cast aside, her hopes set on finding a modest day dress, akin to the attire the maids would wear during their visits to town. Alas, none surfaced. It seemed that only men's clothing and standard uniforms remained, prompting a click of her tongue in frustration, as she begrudgingly accepted that the former constituted her sole option.

Exasperation welled within her, and with a heave, she discarded her nightgown, hastily snatching up a loose green cotton shirt and a pair of beige trousers that sagged at her waist. Her eyes swept across the laundry room, and a cry of triumph escaped her lips as she spotted a neglected belt hanging from one of the racks. Seizing it, she deftly buckled it around her waist, cinching the trousers securely. Finally, she seized a worn-out brown oversized coat, its weight settling upon her shoulders, while she struggled to keep the rolled-up sleeves from engulfing her hands. Completing her impromptu ensemble, she hastily slipped on a pair of socks and pulled on knee-high leather boots.

Emerging from the laundry room, Lena passed through the kitchen, her gaze falling upon a woven bag containing bread. Without hesitation, she claimed it as her own. Swiftly, she shrugged off her coat, slung the bag across her chest, and slipped back into the comforting embrace of the coat's folds. Now, standing before the servants' door, her hand rested upon the handle, poised to open it. A momentary hesitation gripped her, but a sudden lightning strike outside propelled her forward, causing her to fling open the door in a startle. The tempestuous storm greeted her eagerly, and a smile broke through the clouds of fatigue upon her countenance. The cold caress of wind and rain kissed her face as they tugged at her, urging her farther away. Squinting against the elements, she turned and closed the door behind her, embarking upon the path that led downhill toward the town, where the waiting ships beckoned.

From a distance, she discerned the town's melody, harmonizing with the symphony of the storm—laughter, shouts, and exuberant cries blending into a vibrant cacophony. Yet, as she stood at the epicenter of it all, the sounds seemed to belong to tales she had yet to experience. Excitement and nervous anticipation mingled within her, causing her stomach to bubble with a delightful restlessness. The fear that had gripped her back in her room now resided merely as a faint ache in her heart. Passersby smiled and engaged in lively conversations, while intoxicated men and women sang and bantered, carried away by the melodies emanating from taverns. The aroma of freshly baked delicacies wafted from every open door of taverns, inns, and homes. Children brandishing wooden swords played joyously, their voices filled with pirate slang as they leaped into puddles. Pirates, she thought, a giggle escaping her lips. Lena couldn't help but marvel at the lively spectacle unfolding before her eyes, for there seemed to be no corner of the town of Lillon unoccupied. Some of the men who passed by wore adornments of jewelry and swords hanging from their hips, their eyes shimmering with the same exuberant joy she had felt earlier.

Shaking her head, she released a breathy laugh, a soft sound escaping her lips. "The ships, Lena, the ships first," she whispered to herself, a gentle reminder, as she sought refuge beneath the sheltering roof of one of the stores. It was certain that they would not embark on their journey tonight. Her task was clear: she needed to unravel the destination they sought and devise a plan to clandestinely join their voyage. Easy... well, perhaps not so easily accomplished... hahaha. Strands of damp hair threatened to obstruct her vision, prompting her to deftly slick them away. Squinting once again, she directed her gaze towards the harbor and the docks, where slumbering figures lay undisturbed. How can they sleep through this storm? Lena watched in awe, momentarily captivated by their seemingly impervious slumber. However, she swiftly dismissed the thought, turning her attention elsewhere.

A woman, equally drenched by the downpour, hurriedly approached her, vigorously patting herself down to ward off the relentless raindrops. Shivers ran through her body as the winds howled around them. The adrenaline coursing through Lena's veins had momentarily caused her to forget the chill that clung to her, yet now, the sight of the woman's trembling form made her own body shudder in response.

“Oh darling, you must be freezing, huh,” the woman pointed out, her concern evident in her voice, as she continued her futile attempts to dry herself.

"Yes," Lena replied, a small laugh escaping her lips, though her teeth chattered involuntarily.

“Well, you should head home before you catch a cold or somethin’.”

"Actually," Lena began, adjusting her position slightly to face the woman directly, endeavoring to hold her attention, "do you happen to know the destination of these ships, ma'am?"

As the lady halted her movements, her gaze sweeping up and down Lena's figure, a sudden knot formed in Lena's throat. She had never ventured into this part of town, and these people knew nothing of her identity. Up in the manor, she was merely the daughter of a wealthy man, hidden away, decaying in her own solitude. This woman didn't know her. Of course not, Lena reassured herself, clinging to the hope that she would remain unrecognized.

“Don’t tell me a young thing like you got caught up with those men,” the woman sighed, her voice tinged with a mix of sympathy and exasperation.

“Well—” Lena began, intending to clarify her intentions, but the woman interrupted her, shaking her head in disapproval.

“You know, I get us women wanting to make a name for ourselves. But it’s not necessary with those savages.” She shook her head. “Do you know what it’s like being on board with twenty or more men on a ship?”

"No, but—" Lena attempted to interject, her words falling on deaf ears.

“Cause let me tell you, I do. Or at least my cousin’s girlfriend’s friend Genevive knows. Ooh, she told me some things that no woman should bear witness to or experience. She said it better herself, ‘Women can do it all but don’t need to lose the class they were taught,’ and every time I work with those men at the tavern, I feel that in my chest darlin’.”

Lena stood before the woman, her eyes blinking in a dazed fashion, her lips slightly parted as she struggled to process the woman's words within her fatigued mind. Leaning down to meet the young girl's gaze, the woman's concern was palpable as she spoke, “Oh damn, don’t tell me you’re already feeling sick. They do say small things like you get easily withered.”

Startled by the woman's proximity, Lena instinctively leaned back, offering a sheepish smile in response. "I, uh, no, I assure you, I feel perfectly fine. I apologize for the confusion. Working alongside them can indeed be draining. However, circumstances have led to my transfer, and I need to ascertain which ship is bound for which destination."

Acknowledging Lena's explanation with a nod, the woman adjusted her dampened hair and leaned over the edge of the shop's wall, directing her gaze toward the bustling harbor. “Well, I can’t tell you which is which since I don’t really step out onto the docks. But I can tell you the places they’re planning to go.”

“That’s fine,” I think.

“Well, from what I heard, two are planning to sail west to the islands of Canoga, and one is sailing to Pearl Reef.”

Expressing her gratitude, Lena suppressed the urge to curtsy out of habit. "Thank you for your assistance."

“Of course. Now, I must get a couple of things and head back. It was nice meeting you! You should head home and take a bath before you get yourself sick, though,” she finished before heading into the shop.

Lena offered a nod of acknowledgment before turning her gaze toward the three ships looming before her. Canoga was not a viable option, considering Li'Pold's presence there. This meant she had a single opportunity to choose wisely among the trio bound for Pearl Reef. Among the three vessels, the one positioned in the middle exuded a grandeur surpassing that of its counterparts. Adorning its bowsprit was a meticulously crafted figurehead, depicting a bird with its wings tucked gracefully. In her younger years, a maid would regale Lena with tales of sailing and ships, given her father's occupation as a merchant. While the intricate details and components of a ship hadn't been retained as vividly as the locations in those stories, the captivating designs of mermaids, maidens, and pirates that adorned the vessels had always held a profound allure. Each ship possessed its unique design, laden with symbolism.

I’d best get moving.

As Lena maneuvered through the undulating masses of swaying crowds and bustling vendors, her mind was awash with nervous contemplation of the words she would utter once she confronted the men who occupied the docks. Unbeknownst to her until now, the briny aroma of the sea permeated the air, permeating her nostrils and searing her lungs with an unfamiliar and putrid blend of salt and fish. As her feet made contact with the weathered wooden planks of the docks, a resounding creak jolted her senses, prompting her to cast a wary gaze downward, ensuring the integrity of the flooring beneath her.

Resting against one of the pylons, a man of similar age to Lena lounged upon a diminutive wooden stool. A brown cocked hat nestled upon his face, slightly askew to grant his left eye an unimpeded view. With his right arm, he diligently secured the hat, preventing the capricious wind from snatching it away. Nonetheless, his long black vest and billowing blouse danced with the breeze, threatening to become disheveled and dislodged from his brown trousers. Drenched by the rain as Lena was, he remained unperturbed in his repose, only mustering a glance as she drew nearer. Peering at her through the small opening afforded by his hat, he offered no inclination to alter his position.

"Yes?" His voice, groggy and brimming with palpable disinterest, reverberated towards her.

Lena raised her hand above her eyes in an attempt to shield them from the incessant rainfall, her voice carrying a trace of urgency, “Sorry, I was hoping to talk to the Captain who will be sailing to Pearl Reef.”

Upon hearing her request, he sat up, setting aside his hat as he scrutinized her with a discerning gaze. Raising an eyebrow, a smug smirk materialized upon his countenance, as he insinuated, “Are you one of his whores?”

His words elicited a mixture of disbelief and revulsion within Lena, causing her voice to escalate slightly, "His what?"

Unfazed by her reaction, he retorted, his tone tinged with sardonic amusement, “Don’t be ashamed; it happens. I’ve noticed that the ones who’ve accepted it tend to have a better time.”

“I am not a whore and certainly not his. I’m just hoping to speak to him.”

Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, he shook his head, his demeanor condescending, “Being desperate isn’t a good look on you. It won’t win him over, either.”

Oh, for the love of god— “Do you know where he is or not?”

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back, divulging the sought-after information, “At the Greyson’s tavern. Perhaps singing another night away.”

She expressed a bitter gratitude to the man who had provided her with the desired information before retracing her steps through the town, her gaze fixed upon the carved wooden signs suspended above or affixed to the walls of shops and establishments. The weariness that had been steadily encroaching upon her finally overwhelmed her resistance, a relentless reminder of the discomfort that plagued her within the confines of these sodden, ill-fitting garments. They clung to her form with an ungainly persistence, exacerbating the chafed skin between her thighs. The ceaseless downpour only added to her plight, as her dampened hair adhered to her neck and cheeks, teasing her already hypersensitive complexion. "Just convince him to grant you a place within his crew," she muttered to herself, an incantation she repeated with increasing fervor. At long last, the sight of handcrafted lettering announcing 'Greyson's Tavern' above a sturdy oak door elicited a warmth that transformed her withered countenance into a grateful smile.

Externally, the establishment exuded an atmosphere of intimacy, imbued with rustic charm. Pillars hewn from both soft and hardwood dominated the outer facade, while the interior remained hidden behind glazed windows. However, the sounds and warmth emanating from within could be perceived even from the outside. The lively melodies and animated conversations spilled forth as the door swung open, permitting ingress and egress. The occupants within appeared dazed, inebriated, or otherwise under the influence. Lena followed closely behind one of the patrons, and as she crossed the threshold, she basked in the embrace of warm yellow light that enveloped the interior, the palpable heat radiating from the throng of bodies swaying and singing in unison. Her gaze momentarily lowered to the floor, besmirched by countless muddy footprints, spilled libations, and discarded remnants of food. Nonetheless, as she stood within the entryway, drenched and shivering, she reveled in the unfamiliar sensation of warmth, audibly releasing a sigh of relief as she finally escaped the clutches of the cold and damp.

Waitresses traversed the premises, dutifully attending to an abundance of drink and food orders. One of them bestowed upon Lena a fleeting smile as she passed by, though her attention was swiftly diverted to cater to another person. It’s not like I brought money with me, Lena thought wryly. The amalgamation of unfamiliar scents wafting through the tavern provoked a slight headache, but one she resolved to endure until she could board the ship. Above her, stout wooden beams provided support for the upper floor, while modest chandeliers adorned with rows of flickering candles illuminated the space. The walls were adorned with an assortment of mementos, each bearing the signatures of patrons who had likely donated them. Numerous long tables were occupied by what appeared to be the entire populace of Lillon, while smaller tables also accommodated revelers who reveled in their mirth, perhaps even to excess, if such a thing were possible. Even the bar stools were predominantly claimed, yet the close proximity seemed to elicit no discontent among the occupants. Amidst it all, perched atop one of the elongated tables, a man bellowed forth a sea shanty that served as a siren's call to the assembled crowd.

Lena quickly discerned that he held command over the sea shanty that had enraptured the hearts of all present; amidst the clamor of boisterous voices, his own resounded with unparalleled brilliance. Entranced, she watched him with unabashed fascination, unable to deny the handsomeness that graced his visage. His fiery red tresses tumbled untamed, cascading in playful disarray with errant strands framing his features. The remnants of rainwater adorned his bronzed skin, shimmering like liquid gems. It appeared that not a soul in this haven of revelry minded the rain's persistent assault, embracing the tempestuous conditions with fervor. A faint blush brushed his cheeks as he quaffed from a bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. His pearly white teeth gleamed with each infectious smile that accompanied the fervent rendition of the next verse, eliciting spirited dances from his fellow merrymakers. Smudged black makeup accentuated his eyes, while golden jewelry shimmered seductively in the ambient light. As the song crescendoed toward its final chorus, he rose from his seat and meandered through the throng, leaning in to share intimate words and hearty laughter with the assembled company. A mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes as he serenaded a woman from behind, their playful exchange culminating in a twirl and a tantalizing tease. And as the melody reached its climactic end, he ascended a chair, lifting his bottle high while exclaiming a triumphant 'hoorah!' in unison with the raucous crowd.

The tavern erupted in a symphony of applause and cheers, reverberating through the air as glasses were raised in celebratory toasts to the renowned 'Captain Canerie,' who responded with a playful bow. Lena recognized that her moment had arrived, the opportune time to seize her chance. With each apologetic murmur, she navigated through the bustling crowd, diligently shadowing the vibrant-haired captain's every move. Amidst the sea of revelers, she felt diminutive, her gaze barely reaching the shoulders of those around her, compelling her to rise onto tiptoes intermittently to maintain sight of her target. Stay still, you idiot! she chided herself, though he seemed to flit effortlessly from table to table, engaging in flirtations with women and sharing hearty laughter with men who eagerly inquired about his seafaring exploits.

Finally, Lena arrived at the table where she had first spotted him. Nervousness and apprehension coiled tightly within her gut and constricted her throat, yet she steeled herself for this encounter. "Captain Canerie?" she called out, her voice rising above the clamor. He continued regaling his companions with laughter and tales, while a woman seated beside him leaned against his shoulder, fluttering her lashes coquettishly.

"Captain Canerie," Lena spoke again, raising her volume. At once, the collective gaze of the table's occupants shifted toward her, some with mouths full of food, others peering curiously from behind their drinks. The tavern's vivacity persisted, yet she felt an eerie hush settle over the world. Suppressing a nervous giggle, she met his amused gaze as the woman fed him morsels of bread.

“Apologies for interrupting your festivities, but I wanted to know if you are the individual destined for the voyage to Pearl Reef," Lena interjected, her words breaking through the jubilant atmosphere. All eyes remained fixed upon her, and she couldn't help but fathom the peculiarity of her appearance in their discerning gazes. Bedraggled like a stray, she donned garments that dwarfed her slender frame, while her fatigued countenance, tinged with unshed tears and the weariness of mourning, likely struck them as an oddity. If Mr. Freed saw me…oh god.

"And if I were?" he responded in a mouthful.

"I had hoped to join your company," she ventured, her tone forthright yet carrying with it hope.

A collective freeze gripped the table, the captain's hand instinctively halting the woman from feeding him. A hint of amusement danced at the corner of his lips, quickly spreading contagiously among his comrades.

“Thank you for the laugh,” he retorted, succumbing to laughter alongside others.

"It is no jest," she insisted, her tone shifting to solemnity.

His head recoiled in disbelief, a brow arching quizzically as he took a bite of bread offered by the woman. Swallowing the morsel, he spoke, "And why should I entertain the notion? Do you possess any riches or significant valuables to sway me?"

“No—”

“Then I don’t see any chance of you stepping foot on my ship.”

He took a sip from his drink, resuming his conversation with those around him, their collective indifference casting her further into a realm of trepidation and ire. Anger coursed through her veins, intertwining with the nervousness and fear she had already experienced.

"I was going to offer myself as payment," she declared, her voice carrying enough weight to quell their chatter, eliciting a chorus of intrigued murmurs.

He faced her directly, giving her a good look up and down before scoffing, “No offense, love, but you’re just not my type.”

His companions erupted in laughter, provoking a wave of disgust that knitted her brows together. "I meant for work. I am prepared to undertake cleaning and any other menial tasks required during the journey."

He was on the cusp of responding when a young man of her age, his tousled brunette locks framing his face, tapped the captain's shoulder and motioned for a private conversation. Whispering into the redhead's ear, his message elicited a radiant smile upon the captain's face as he redirected his attention to Lena.

“I don’t see why, but we do need an extra hand around after our last one fell overboard.”

Lena's eyes widened in astonishment. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she clasped her hands together, ready to express her heartfelt appreciation, but her words caught in her throat as the captain raised his hand. “But, you must first beat me in a drinking contest. Only fair, since you’ll be around a bunch of drunks.”

Her mind went still as she thought about the offer, I’ve never drank a drop of liquor. I just watched the workers back home have a swig of it late at night. It can’t be that awful, surely. The same man who had whispered to Captain Canarie pushes a large cup of beer across the table in front of her.

Gazing at the effervescent bubbles dancing atop the freshly poured pint, Lena found herself momentarily transfixed. She then turned her attention to the man who had presented her with the drink, a smile gracing her lips. "What is your name?" she inquired.

“Chenle, why?” he replied, his eyes fixated on her with an air of fascination.

Lena took hold of the cup, raising it to her nose to inhale the peculiar aroma, allowing its distinct scent to tantalize her senses. "Because it’s only right that I get to know my crewmate's name," she explained, before taking hearty gulps that swiftly emptied the vessel.

A chorus of cheers erupted in her honor, but the exultation intensified when she gingerly placed the empty cup back on the table and found herself seized by a fit of coughs and retches, her revulsion palpable. That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted, she confessed, her disgust evident.

“Seems like your first time, little dove,” he then emptied his cup and sets it down proudly.

Chenle refills her cup and hands it to her, “How badly do you want to be part of the crew?”

Rolling her eyes in a bitter display, Lena accepted the cup from him, downing its contents in one fell swoop. Yet, the experience failed to offer any semblance of refreshment; instead, it burdened her with a leaden sensation and heightened self-revulsion, surpassing even the discomfort she had endured in the midst of the rain-soaked storm.

“So, how will this go?” she asked.

“Easy, keep drinking until one gives up or passes out,” he finishes another cup and gets refilled.

“Fine,” Lena says bitterly and finishes hers.

The cycle persisted until Captain Canarie dispatched the young woman seated beside him to retrieve another pint. One of the crewmates even graciously vacated his spot, affording her a place to sit. The crew member who provided the seat refilled her sixth cup, introducing himself as Mark, the Quartermaster. Much like the captain, he bore smudged black makeup beneath his eyes and donned ornate silver rings adorned with intricate depictions of animals and human portraits. The life of a merchant must yield handsome rewards, Lena surmised, albeit hazily, amidst her inebriated state.

"Come now, don't lose your pace," Captain Canarie prodded, gesturing towards her newly replenished cup of beer.

Narrowing her gaze at him, she quaffed the contents of the cup and slammed it resolutely onto the table. "Your turn," she challenged.

And with a swift motion, he raised the cup to his lips, effortlessly consuming its contents in a single gulp. Lena couldn't help but be bothered by how effortlessly he drank, seemingly unaffected, while she struggled to maintain her composure. While he appeared invigorated, she found herself navigating the world as if through the tranquil undulations of calm waves, each movement weighed down by the heaviness in her limbs. Her words began to slur, a source of annoyance and frustration.

Mark poured yet another pint, extending it towards her. However, as her lips brushed against the rim of the cup, a halt befell her as Captain Canarie's voice resonated through the air. "Alright, I'm done for the night, boys," he declared.

Lena's ears perked up at his proclamation, and in a fit of intoxicated excitement, she slammed her cup onto the table, causing the liquid to spill and drench her hand. Rising from her seat, she clumsily pumped her fist in the air with uncharacteristic glee. Turning towards the captain, who was already sporting a knowing smile, she exclaimed, "I've won! I've won, and now you have take me to Pearl Reef!"

Rising to his feet, Captain Canarie took hold of the woman's hand beside him, delicately kissing the back of her palm. "Actually, no," he responded.

Lena froze momentarily, a slight stumble betraying her inebriated state, her hand instinctively gripping the back of the extended bench to steady herself. "What do you mean, 'no'?" she retorted.

“I mean, you won’t be sailing with us. Go home and get yourself cleaned up.” he asserted, his arms now enveloping the woman, his chin resting against her shoulder.

“But you said if I won, I could sail with you,” she scornfully protested.

He gave her scant attention, burying his face deeper into the woman's neck. “I did, and now I say ‘nay,’ and as Captain, my words go. Crew?” he called out, his gaze shifting to the rest of the assembled individuals, who responded with chuckles, continuing to feast and drink. Some even raised their cups in amusement.

Her heart twisted and ached with a potent mix of anger and burgeoning tantrum. While she had never been one to behave childishly, weariness and sorrow pushed her beyond her limits. Yet, she bit her tongue, allowing tears to escape, their silent descent an embodiment of her seething emotions.

"You are a coward and unworthy of leading this crew," she spat venomously, her voice rising to a height that caused the tavern to fall into an uneasy silence.

The captain, along with his crew, took notice, and he withdrew from the woman's embrace, striding purposefully toward the distraught girl, his imposing figure casting a towering shadow. Their gazes locked in a glowering exchange, the tension in the air growing palpable. With gritted teeth, she uttered her final words, seething with disdain, "You are nothing but a pathetic liar."

"Take... her," the captain's command was resolute and concise, and in the blink of an eye, two of his crewmates seized Lena by her arms, their grip firm and unyielding.

She fought in their grip, “You can’t do this! What you’re doing is illegal. I’ll make sure your licenses as merchants are revoked!”

Laughter filled the air, intermingling with the boisterous revelry that engulfed the tavern. Captain Canarie, immersed in the mirthful atmosphere, joined in the cacophony, his voice resonating above the rest. "Who ever claimed we were mere merchants? We are Pirates!" he proclaimed, his words reverberating through the room, igniting a thunderous response from the crowd.

𔘓⁩ ᵗⁱᵖʲᵃʳ

divider: @/saradika

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sseanettles · 8 months ago

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I struggled to choose (your wips sound so cool!) but I thought I'd go one of your original works :) so yellow rose manor?

haha aw thanks @rriavian! don't worry you picked a fun one!

yellow rose manor is going to eventually be a series, but it's going to be my take of what happens when you have a bunch of zillennial supernatural entities renting an apartment together and their ensuing adventures and shenanigans with all the plots rooted in real life issues of stuff like domestic abuse, religious trauma, addiction, etc. etc.

It's set in San Francisco, so the apartment is an old Victorian home that is haunted on a very structural level by the ghost of a murdered nine year old Victorian era girl who possesses the house because her body was buried in the foundations. So she's the kind of haunting where if you set up foundational stones in other places she can teleport the house to those foundation stones, she can change the very structure of the building to screw with you (moving doors, stairs, etc.) and is simultaneously everyone's mom due to her chronological age vs. death age and the WOULD YOU STOP THAT poltergeist.

Her compatriot and "dad" of the house is the "landlord" which is really just her old friend who solved her murder back in the 1800s and has taken care of her and the house ever since. His fun twist is that he's actually Galahad the grail knight and spends his eternity following the magically moving island of avalon to protect arthur and await his return. We have some good old loyal knight pining after his king situation here. The house moves with him and for now Avalon is magically posted out in San Francisco Bay by Angel Island and Alcatraz, not that mortals can see it. He is begrudging team dad, the tired and burnt out idealist who is trying so hard to not live up to his legend anymore and just be a guy waiting for his love to wake up. Because he's so burnt out about the world that if he tried to use The Greatest Knight Of The Roundtable Skills without those morals/guiding lights anymore, he's going to just hurt people. We'll see if his latest tenants/eventual found family can help him hope and believe again.

The other members of the house are a medium/witch who is running away from her abusive hyper-religious family and is the newest addition to this house (brought on via a craigslist ad because they need someone to purge the ghost haunting this house they just moved into, it's a really nice house with cheap rent and the landlord is never around, pleaaase?).

Then there is a vampire who has agoraphobia from pre-bitten times, was transformed only twenty years ago or so and HATES that this is the era he's gotta be starting out as immortal in. I have some heft addiction and prior domestic abuse arcs planned for him, it's going to be a good but painful time.

There's a werewolf who is Muslim and has the biggest golden retriever energy, and she handles her zoomies energy by playing on a very physical local recreational soccer team. It'll be a take on lycanthropy where it's viewed as a blessing/god giving you the power to defend that which you love instead of a curse, and she treats it as such.

There is one human in the house, his name is Kevin, and he makes sure that everyone has the appropriate meals and nutrition and supernatural existence requirements/enrichment. His running gag is that everyone he gets close to turns out to be supernatural, and he's so proud when he brings his girlfriend home to show off like hey look guys a fully normal human isn't she great? At which point Galahad walks in and just says "yeah so how did you of all people meet Doto the Nereid", and Kevin just loses his mind.

The first book will be called The House On the Hill and opens like this:

There was a house that lived on a hill. This was not unusual for San Francisco where nearly every house, apartment, office, and parking lot was, in fact, built upon a hill. It made for messy city life—parallel parking from an even deeper circle of hell, savage cardio workouts built into the weekly run to the local grocery store (if it hadn’t been demolished in favor of the latest hipster shop in a never-ending chain of hipster shops), and a sizeable yearly budget for brake pads. Nevertheless, there was still a house that lived on a hill.

#@rriavan #mine #writing #original works #yellow rose manor #WIP ask game #my writing #chatting into the void

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vivianleighwishesshewasme · 6 months ago

Text

Grace's Crush

little Grace Burgess and unrequited love

_______________________________________________________

Grace Helen Burgess had a crush. At the tender age of nine she fell head over heels in puppy love with the Stable man’s son.

She would often lurk near the stables and sneak in popping her head around the stalls to see where he was.

Liam Galliger was a rough and tumble boy of ten who found the blonde headed cootie ridden girl a major annoyance. She was always asking him for help over silly things she could do herself like cleaning a horse or saddling her favorite white and gray Mare, Avalon.

He was tall and strong for his age, his bright red hair captured her imagination too. His soft brown freckles dotting his nose and cheek with his icy blue eyes didn’t hurt to look at either.

She was currently into fairy tales so loved recreating her own. Liam was the grumpy dragon who had yet to fall in love with princess Grace. She knew he would eventually. After all, she was delighted that her father told her so many times a month.

Yet, her presence seemed to irritate him. She’d bide her time for now. See if he ever came back around.

________________________________________________________________

Grace Burgess was a tall, graceful and beautiful faced girl of seventeen facing her first dance at the manor.

She finished her schooling and was home for the summer before continuing education at the Queens University in Belfast this fall.

She was eager to get on with life and experience things outside of books. She dreamed of an exciting life unknown and undesired by her counterparts. She still wasn't sure exactly what that looked like but she was open.

For now she was ready to ride her horse Avalon. She hadn’t had a ride all year on her beloved Mare and was looking forward to it.

Grace walked into the familiar barn. She was surprised at how quiet it was.

“Hello?” She called her soft Irish brogue echoing through the almost empty stables. Most of her family had converted to automobiles so the barn that was once filled and teaming with life, was empty and filled with silence.

“Hold on, I'm coming!” A gruff voice bounced off the stables causing Grace to pause and raise an eyebrow. Who would dare talk to her like that?

A tall, muscular man with flaming red hair and hazel eyes, freckles adoring the bridge of his nose and cheeks, a red flush crossing his visage greeted her.

Grace scoffed and shook her head. Of course, he would rise to the occasion.

“Hello Liam, good to see you. Just came in for a ride.” She said as she opened the door to her horses stall and the white horse came trotting out eager to leave the wooden prison.

“Grace? Wow, I mean hello.” he stumbles over his words. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Let me help you.” He pushed his sleeved up to his muscular biceps. Time ahd been good to him, as had hard labor Grace thought.

“I can get it Liam, really it's no problem.” Going to an all girls school had shaped Grace into being fiercely independent. She thrived on it now.

“It’s my job Grace.” He smiled realizing that she’d grown up in many senses many ways since they last met. She didn't have that attitude last time.

“Heard you went off to England proper.” Grace acknowledged that she’d kept tabs on him. Truthfully her mother had brought it up.

“Stayed with my mom for a few years, I’m back now, you?” His parents had gone through a divorce. It had wrecked his father. She felt bad, he’d been a nice man. As far as living with his mother he’d had no choice since his father had hung himself, at least that’s what Grace had heard from the maids.

“I’m here for the summer before I spread my wings in college.” She added curtly before finishing tightening up Avalons saddle.

“Right.” He smiled at her and added the horse's bit.

She silently corrected everything he did and left him behind to clear her head.

Everyday was like that. She would fix Avalons gear and go riding acknowledging him in little bits of conversation. He was always eager to see her.

Fall hit properly and Grace walked past the vehicles eager to get on with her life at college. She walked to the stables to say goodbye to Liam and avalon. She doubted when she visited either one would be here.

Graces mother had made a comment about shuttering the stables when the time comes or converting them to a garage.

“ We'll, I hope you enjoy your time over there.” Liam said, shifting from foot to foot nervously. They both knew that times were changing for them. Gone were the little stares and peeks, stolen kisses in the stables and so on.

“Have a good life Liam, I hope you get everything you deserve.” She smiled and squeezed his hand, turning and walking out into the sun toward her new beginnings.

“You too Grace.” He calls watching his unrequited love walk out forever.

#peaky blinders fanfic #original character #grace burgess #unrequited love #unrequited crush #unrequited feelings

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busygirlgcttagc · 1 year ago

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[ actually sitting down and write down what, exactly, is canon for each verse she has

which. mostly means saying which game is canon and which isnt lfandsmg ]

DEAD BY DAYLIGHT

VERSE-CANON GAMES: any game in the blog-canon timeline up to the Last Revelation, including of course everything told in Chronicles

she got caught by the Entity with Set after the ending of the Last Revelation

technically set between the ending of TLR and Chronicles, with Von Croy still looking for her and everyone else thinking she's just missing; time is the Realms, so while it's been just a few weeks on Earth she could've been stuck in there for longer, never aging

if she ever returned to Earth, escaping the Entity, everything would return to the proper timeline with her meeting Putai and forgetting everything about the Entity

POKEMON

VERSE-CANON GAMES: any game in the blog-canon timeline, of course set in a Pokèmon world, and featuring her Team

she's from Galar, the Fiamma Nera cult is from my fanregion Eteria, any encounter with T-Rexes involve Pokèmon battles between her Team and particularly aggressive Tyrantrums, her encounter with Set involves instead a powerful Legendary from some Egyptian-based Legendary and so on. Just Pokèmonize locations and events and you should be good generally speaking

rather than ending up in the Floating Island and in Avalon, Lara ended up in the Ultra Space via Wormholes created by the Fiamma Nera and Amanda; she's a Faller, and I consider that private knowledge

she actively helped with the SWSH post-game events and still tries to track down both the SwordShield brothers and Rose, and had run-ins with Calyrex

in the same way she's not seen in a good light in Paris, she'd much rather avoid Kalos after she had to deal with one death cult involving immortal beings; the least she knows about Flare, the better it is for everyone

TEAM FORTRESS 2

VERSE-CANON GAMES: any game in the blog-canon timeline

she went through all her adventures but everything is set back a few years to fit in the TF2 timeline, including her birthdate

this means that in this verse she was born in early-to-mid '30s, and reaches New Mexico in the late '60sm with everything in the timeline taking place in those years

not really on either side, but she seems to have better interactions with the REDs so far. once again, she only plays for sport

VIDEOGAMES

VERSE-CANON GAMES: only the games classic Lara went through, so from Tomb Raider to Angel of Darkness

any classic games retelling or remastered except Anniversary are canon, since she's some sort of "videogame actress" à la Wreck it Ralph in this verse

the 10th Anniversary edition is canon

any app that uses classic Lara like Reloaded or Go are canon

her presence in TV spots, Fortnite and Call of Duty is canon

she went through the adventures but she's aware she's a videogame character, and normally is chill in her own manor when she waits for people to restart the games

#[ ☥ ] ] ᴘᴏsɪᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ᴀᴍᴀᴢᴏɴɪᴀɴ | • | about&headcanons [ [ ☥ ]#[ ☥ ] ] ᴍᴀɴɴ's ʀᴀɪᴅᴇʀ | • | tf2 [ [ ☥ ]#[ ☥ ] ] ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪsᴛ | • | dead by daylight [ [ ☥ ]#[ ☥ ] ] sᴇᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ғᴀʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪᴅᴇ | • | pokemon [ [ ☥ ]#[ ☥ ] ] ɢᴀᴍɪɴɢ’s ғɪʀsᴛ ʟᴀᴅʏ | • | videogames [ [ ☥ ]#this is the AUs page too so. yea <3

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conceptncookie · 2 years ago

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I will be brief. Despite the show itself being low-budget and unknown to the masses, I love its characters for all the obvious reasons. @writtenndust has explained everything so perfectly.

We are now living in the era of generative AI, so why not use it to visualize what we’ve always wanted to see but never had the chance? I personally like to think that after spending some pleasurable time in Avalon and defeating Mordren once and for all, they returned home. I imagine their life would be something we see on Downton Abbey, but far less conventional. In public, they would probably respect protocols, but in private, they’d be like, “What the heck?” So, this is Marguerite at their country estate in Avebury, chilling in the grand manor.

#MargueriteKrux #TheLostWorld #GenerativeAI

#marguerite krux #the lost world #generative ai

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raitrolling · 2 years ago

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Ancestor Famousness(tm) for my mains cuz I've been thinking about it and I don't think I have this written down anywhere

Krasic Rissah / The Advocate: Basically lost to time, though her rebellion is mentioned in The Swindler's journals

Lycori Pharom / The Haruspex: Basically lost to time

Kiyana Bathre / The Beloved: If the name wasn't already an indication, she's been relegated to nothing more than The Malefact's matesprit, who assisted in his research and then tragically took her own life

Silque Tselao / The Martinet: The name may be recognisable if you know your Alternian military history, as he was well-regarded by those he trained during their early Fleet days. He tends to get credited as the troll who helped mould soldiers into the decorated heroes they came to be (or so they say in their autobiographies)

Siilas Giacho / The Whiteout: More likely that one who knows their Alternian military history knows of Codename: Nuclear Winter, but it's not as well-known that this weapon of war belonging to the Fleet was actually a troll

Canade Avalon / The Luminous: The name is known in Vernrot Harbour, but the story behind how he tried to save the residents from becoming influenced by Those Who Slumber In The Deep has been twisted, and nowadays there's still a mistrust towards the Avalon bloodline for their involvement in this part of history

Pavlov Espino / The Swinder: The name would be familiar for those who know their military history, as he was a rebel hunter who was a part of one of the Empire's elite soldier groups (The Hunting Dogs). However, he deliberately filled his journals with inconsistencies and fabrications in order to obscure his movements, making it difficult to ascertain his exact story. The Espino name also has a reputation in the Fleet as having strong associations with assassinations, as the bloodline is typically raised to follow in Pavlov's footsteps

Bathym Elliss / The Countess Antumbra: Her whole story as a cannibalistic serial killer who may or may not have connections to the occult has made her a very popular subject for True Crime podcasts. Nightfall Manor does get its occasional visit from true crime fans wanting to check out the scene where Bathym tortured and then ate her victims, only to be disappointed when they find Glasya living there

Ondrue Reyleh / The Malefact (Her Inquisitive Malefaction): A well-renowned scientist in the Fleet during his time. His research into the development of mutations in grubs and wrigglers, as well as troll biology in general, was a large scientific breakthrough at the time, and his works are still cited to this day. However, his research is also controversial in nature, as the experiments he conducted on young trolls are considered to be highly inhumane

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lionofavalon · 2 years ago

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⠀⠀ ❪⠀𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲⠀❫

⠀⠀ alt. text: genetic file

name:⠀⠀Brian Braddock

alias:⠀⠀Captain Britain

titles:

Captain Avalon, Lionheart, Black Bishop

Young Lion of London

pronouns:⠀⠀He/Him

race:⠀⠀Half-Otherworlder, Half-Human

ethnicity:⠀⠀British

birthday:⠀⠀October 29

zodiac:⠀⠀Scorpio

bloodtype:⠀⠀AB

education:⠀⠀Ph.D in Physics

occupation:⠀⠀Superhero, Adventurer

base of operations:

Braddock Manor,

Maldon, Essex, England,

Braddock lighthouse

affiliations:

MI13, Avengers, Champions of Europe,

Champions of Otherworld's Camelot,

Hellfire Club, Secret Avengers, [etc.]

weapons:⠀Star sceptre

gender:⠀⠀Male

age:⠀⠀Late 20s — Mid 30s

height:⠀⠀6'6"

weight:⠀⠀Approx. 257lbs

pigmentation:⠀⠀Warm ivory

physique:⠀⠀Muscular, chiseled

eyes:⠀⠀Blue

hair:⠀⠀Blond

moral alignment:⠀⠀Lawful Good

traits:

Confident, Somewhat arrogant,

Quick-Tempered, Willful, Judging,

Responsible, Stubborn

orientation:⠀⠀Bisexual

#[ muse info ]

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sekhisadventures · 8 months ago

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As We Go Deeper

As Avalon and Savage United, along with Alleria Windrunner, Anduin Wrynn, and the other survivors of Dalaran’s destruction press deeper into the cavernous expanse of Khaz Algar let us look away from them for a bit. There are far more than them in this world after all, and it would behoove us to remember that not everyone has their best interests at heart.

Quel’thas, Wintersky Manor

Sinranir scowled as he lay on his bed, his arms folded under his head as he glared at the ceiling above as if he could simply bore a hole in it with his gaze alone. The bed was a formality really, in the room because it was expected for a room to have one. He hadn’t slept a single wink since Alalestria had ripped him from the skies above Oribos to return, screaming in pain, to his former body.

He hated what she had done to him, what she’d made him into. A darkfallen, an undead elf, bound into her service. If he refused to do as she told him, she could inflict horrible agony upon his every nerve with but a gesture. A brutal, but effective means of ensuring his loyalty.

He had never been disloyal when alive, geas or not. If nothing else House Wintersky offered him a comfortable base of operations and let him have a long leash so that he could enjoy the creature comforts of Silvermoon City. Now the finest elven wines were like pond water to him, and the choicest spiced meats so much flavorless shoe leather. The undead’s sense of taste was dulled, and very few women would want to share the company of one of the darkfallen (and those few who did disturbed even a seasoned assassin like himself.)

Alalestria had bid him to wait for further orders, so wait he would. Their agents in Stormwind had reported that Avalon House had been vacated and left in the care of an elderly pandaren woman, likely a relative of the one she encountered on the Dragon Isles, which meant for the time being they did not know where ‘Sam’ael’ was.

Alalestria sat in her study, reading through her family’s grimoire. Her personal inheritance, which held every spell ever devised by her ancestors all the way back to Silvermoon’s founding.

Lord Lor’themar had forbidden Alalestria from pursuing her murderous grudge against her estranged sibling… but as far as Alalestria was concerned using someone like Sinranir was a convenient loophole. After all, it wasn’t her doing it. She would be busy with more important matters.

One such matter concerned the news she’d received from Orgrimmar.

It contained quite a horror story. Dalaran destroyed, Khadgar missing in action, the nerubians attacking in force, chaos and confusion… and in the center of it all two beings that Alalestria detested.

Alleria Windrunner, the aberration that had almost befouled the Sunwell with the taint of the Void running through her veins, and this new threat known as Xal’atath the Harbinger. The few eyewitness accounts she’d managed to get confirmed her suspicions. The visions that she’d received of a void elf woman with runes tattooed on her skin and eyes like black holes… that was her. This would require something different… Khadgar was one of the few human magi she respected. The Last Guardian of Tirisfal, arguably the most powerful magician in all of Azeroth, and even then, it’d be a tough contest between him and Jaina Proudmoore. That would be a wizard’s duel she’d love to watch (using a scrying spell, perhaps from Shattrath City in Outland just to be safe.)

As she turned the page detailing the conjuration she’d used to try to kill her sibling at the Azure Archives she paused.

A section penned by one of her aunts who had left Quel’thalas generations ago to travel with the humans of the Kingdom of Arathi across the seas. She had met them once and despite her wintery magic had been quite fascinated by how fervently they believed in their symbol of holiness, the flame.

“Hmm…” she murmured, reading the heading of the first page, “The Art of Frostfire Sorcery…” she mused, continuing down the page.

While common sense and logic tell us that such incompatible forces cannot be joined together, I defy this statement. The power of fire has served his royal highness King Sunstrider for many years now, and the Arathi’s faith has touched me. These spell formulae I put to paper here will allow one to do what many magi consider impossible, downright ludicrous even. The immense heat of arcane fire, the utter chill of arcane frost, joined together in a most potent weapon…

Alalestria grinned, then continued to read. A moment later she conjured a scroll and quill and began to take notes.

Azuremyst Island

The vindicators and other soldiers were gathering their tools and weapons, as well as what provisions would be needed. They could not spare many with the project that was already underway on the island, but upon hearing that Anduin was alive and possibly in need of aid Velen insisted they would send who they could to help. Fortunately, they had a surplus of people who were better at fighting than anything else.

Malgum leaned against one of the walls inside the Exodar, his muscular arms folded over his chest as he thought back over the last year. He was glad that he was able to aid his sister with their foe, Dissonantia, but it still galled him that she had been able to control him like that. Whether he liked it or not, whether Velen welcomed him and the rest of the man’ari back or not… the fact that she had been able to bind him in such a way underlined the truth of the matter. The Draenei and the Man’ari were not one people anymore. Malgum was a demon, or close enough after eons of being infused with the fel that it didn’t matter.

He had stayed to see the job done, to confirm Dissonantia’s defeat and the death of Fyrakk, but after that he had left a single letter for Aziguni before returning to Azuremyst Isle.

Sister,

Attempting to reconnect with you was a mistake. My demonic nature put you all in danger. It is enough for me to know you are alive and well, but do not seek me out again.

Malgum

Now, he would just… continue as best he could. He was man’ari, he had been alive for eons and likely would be for eons more. He was a strong man and a skilled warrior even without the felfury, he could at least find some work.

It was then that he heard of a new contract coming down from the Alliance High Command involving a place known as the Isle of Dorn.

Malgum shrugged to himself, then went to find the recruiter for this military mission and put his name down. Perhaps it would at least offer a diversion for a while.

The City of Threads

Garnal walked towards the Harbinger’s chamber to make his report, but he was not looking forward to it. Mistress Xal’atath hated being bothered by the minute of day-to-day management, and he knew he had news she would hate even more than that.

He knocked on her chamber door, and it swung open to reveal a room hidden in shadows… a deep pool set into the floor. He knew what it was at once, he’d seen it many times in the city. The infamous Black Blood…

“Mistress Xal’atath. I come to report in.” he said in a clear voice, stepping into the chamber.

“Do you now…” whispered a voice that seemed to come from all around him.

He would have taken a deep breath to steady himself, but he hadn’t needed to breathe for many years now. “Lady Harbinger, it is my regret to inform you that our mission ended in failure. The void source you gave us was destroyed by a paladin who drove Xiaren and myself from the facility, slaying many skardyn in the process. He… also shattered my runeblades. Without them I have no weapons.” he admitted.

The loss of his runeblades truly bothered him. Without a runeblade a death knight had no power. Swords engraved with the runes of domination were not something you could simply find at a blacksmith’s shop. Nevermind he couldn’t leave the island for Acherus to put new runes onto new weapons, even if he could it would mean so could Mola’raum…

That part was even worse. Mola’raum escaped, and he knew him and knew that he had betrayed the Ebon Blade. The axe would fall, it would just be a question of when…

A voice came from behind him. “I see… poor lost knight, I question whether or not you truly want my gift of oblivion…” hissed the voice of Xal’atath.

“I do my lady… but without my runeblades I have no way to fight.” he whispered, not daring to look back for fear of what he might see.

“Hmm… that is a problem… but one that is easily remedied. Its time you had an upgrade anyways…” chuckled Xal’atath’s voice, and suddenly he felt as if a hand the size of a person had slammed into him from behind, shoving him forward.

He stumbled, the force pushing him even with his undead strength and heavy armor, and as he fell forward he realized where he was aimed…

Below him was the pool of Black Blood he saw when he entered. “W-wait! Lady Xal’atath please!” he cried out, but there was nobody behind him, and all he heard around him was laughing as he fell headfirst into it. The pool was deep, deep enough to fully submerge a man, and down he went!

The Scourge had found early on that the undead are resistant to the whispers of the Void, that was why so much of their equipment and structures were made of saronite which was, infact, the Black Blood of Yogg-sauron (which begged the question, whose Black Blood was this?)

However, being resilient and being immune are not the same thing, especially when one is fully submerged in it.

In the pool Garnal managed to right himself, then clutched at his head and cried out as a stream of bubbles exited his mouth. The black blood sought out every orifice it could and seeped inwards, aiming for his brain! He thrashed and flailed, trying to surface, but it was as if something was holding him under! As he fought, he was forced to remember them all… all the faces of his fellow soldiers, all the innocents of Lordaeron City, the elves of Quel’thalas, the magi of Dalaran, everyone he had cut down in Arthas’ name during his tenure as one of the Scourge.

He screamed, shaking his head, trying to banish the memories, but the Black Blood wouldn’t let him! It seemed to want more of it! To take delight in it! Every time he tried to focus on anything else it wrenched his thoughts back around and held them in place.

He couldn’t look away! He couldn’t close his eyes! He saw every face! Heard every scream! Every plea for mercy! Every cry of pain! Every command from the Lich King for more and more!

He then felt something… the blood was moving around him, almost coagulating around him, clinging to his armor. He tried to wipe it away, but it refused, it almost seemed to fight him… and finally…

He cried out as he was thrust out of the pool and onto the floor, coughing up a mass of vile liquid from his withered dead lungs as he lay there.

“There, those should be more durable than those rusty things you arrived with.” chuckled the Harbinger.

Garnal rose, then examined himself and shuddered. His armor had changed! His pauldrons were now huge, fanged orifices resting on his shoulders, his belt much the same, and the rest of his armor sported a thick mottled layer of protection with bone spikes jutting out here and there. As he looked, the mouth on one of his pauldrons opened and a long pale blue tongue snapped at the air as if to taste it.

He felt a weight on his belt, then reached down and lifted a new sword. It did not have the traditional runes, but the blade thrummed with power regardless. It had long razor-sharp teeth all along the blade, held on by thick muscle and sinew, and at its hilt was an eye that followed his movements.

The black blood couldn’t alter the undead… but his armor was another matter! It had been infused with the stuff, becoming more alive than the man wearing it, and his new weapons… the fangs on them twitched eagerly, and he could almost hear a faint hissing sound as if the sword quite literally hungered to cut someone.

“Return to your quarters Garnal. We’ll have more for you to do soon enough.” commanded Xal’atath as Garnal nodded and sheathed his new sword, leaving the room.

As he did, he suppressed a shudder. There are few things that can disturb one of the Ebon Blade, they have seen the horrors of war up close many times, and were often complicit in them…

“What did I agree to work for…” he whispered softly as he made his way back through the City of Threads.

Somewhere else…

In a deep expanse underground, far from Khaz Algar, a goblin woman was following her date towards his home. Nizzi Rapidfuse couldn’t believe her luck! Several business deals had gone tits up, her finances were a shambles, investors were pulling out, and she was at a bar debating whether or not drinking herself to death was a good idea when this gorgeous hunk of a goblin walked right up next to her in a fancy red and black suit and offered to buy her a drink… and several drinks later offered to take this somewhere more private.

This guy practically reeked of cash! All she had to do was get into his good graces, fleece him for everything he had, and she was back in the black baby!

“So, whatcha wanna do when we get to your place handsome?” she giggled, she might have had a bit too many, but after the day she had she was owed amirite?!

The goblin man grinned at her, “Oh you’ll see… got somethin’ really fun planned…” he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Here’s a hint…” and then he murmured something.

Nizzi blushed and laughed, “Oh wow! Kinky! Alright big guy lets see what ya got!”

The man led her into a house much like the others next to it and closed the door behind them… then locked it.

A few minutes later Nizzi was shackled to the walls by her wrists, the goblin woman grinning mischeviously at him. “You got some fun tastes buddy… but don’t think I’m gonna beg just ‘cause ya got me all tied up!” she teased.

“Oh I think you might…” he replied, “I never introduced myself did I?” he asked, sliding off his suit jacket and laying it over the arm of an easy chair.

Nizzi paused, then cocked her head, “… uh… actually, yeah… now that I think about it I never got yer name…” she muttered.

The man grinned, and that grin got wider as his body suddenly swelled, the rest of his outfit vanishing in a swirl of felfire. His skin turned from mottled green to the red of good wine, his eyes became glowing blue orbs, and a pair of horns grew back out from his head. Suddenly a pair of wings appeared on his back and a long, wicked tail with a barbed spike on the end thumped the floor next to his hooves!

“Cennon’s the name, seducing little down on their luck beauties is my game…” he grinned as Nizzi stared in shock.

“What the fuck?! You’re a fuckin’ DEMON?!” she shouted, “HEY! ANYONE! HELP!” she screamed, tugging hard on the chains holding her in place.

Cenoon smirked, walking forward. “Oh shhhh… sh sh sh… none of that now. The game is just starting… Come on in you two!” he called in a cheerful voice.

From the next room emerged two figures as Nizzi’s stomach lodged itself in her throat. A gigantic purple skinned man with a battle axe slung over his back, wearing blackened armor and a matching helmet with holes for his horns.

Next to him was a night elven woman, but with glowing green tattoos and balls of felfire for eyeballs. She had small horns peeking out of a head of carroty red hair and wore the simplest top she could which was already beginning to smolder from the heat from her body.

“Let me introduce my partners in crime. Az’arad there is a wrathguard, and he can tear a man’s arm off and beat his friend to death with it before the first man has time to bleed out.” nodded Cenoon with a gesture to the massive creature who flexed meaningfully, his muscles bulging against his flesh.

“Gremori here is a felsworn who enjoys burning people with felfire starting from the tips of their toes and working her way upwards…” smiled the incubus as if he was just having polite conversation with a guest as Gremori blew her a kiss, which caused a little burst of felfire to come from her mouth.

“As for me…” he smirked, then flexed his fingers and a long whip with shards of jagged metal worked into it along the length appeared in his hands, “I’m an incubus as you might have guessed, and I prefer the classics…” he smirked, snapping the whip loudly, “Do you know what we’re going to do now Nizzi?” he asked with a grin.

Nizzi whimpered, shaking her head as sweat poured down the goblin’s face.

Cenoon leaned in and grinned wider, and behind him Az’arad and Gremori were grinning as well, “… we’re going to take turns…” finished the incubus as the goblin let out a terrified scream.

Cenoon had been the one to choose their hideout, and he had made sure above all else the walls were good and THICK. Nobody would hear Nizzi tonight, and nobody would ever see her again.

The surviving members of Unlimited Sin weren’t quite the same without their former leader, Dissonantia, but they made do the best they could.

#warcraft #warcraft fanfiction #adventures in azeroth #world of warcraft #the war within

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